will turn up at your house, and while you are occupied with four of them (cherry-picking between two puckered sheriff-badges; another pleasuring you from the rear with a four finger salute; snorting coke off the tits of the fourth, being careful not to lose any of it within the folds of flab) the rest of the procession will march around the room farting out a pitch perfect rendition of Paul McCartney's Frog Song Chorus.